Thunderhead (Arc of a Scythe #2)(20)

“Of course not. But they don’t need to know that.”

Scythe Curie had warned Citra of what she called “holiday opportunism.” Relatives and family friends would swarm Citra like bees, seeking favor from the young scythe. “You were always my favorite niece,” they would say, or, “We brought this gift just for you.”

“Everyone in your life will expect to be granted immunity from gleaning,” Scythe Curie had warned her, “and that expectation will quickly turn into resentment when they don’t receive it. Not just resentment of you, but of your parents and brother, because they now have immunity for as long as you live.”

Citra decided it was best to avoid all those people.

She went into the kitchen to help her mother prepare the meal. Since she was a food synthesis engineer, several of the side dishes were beta prototypes of new foodstuffs. Her mother, by force of habit, told Citra to be careful when she chopped onions.

“I think I know my way around a knife,” Citra told her, and then regretted it, because her mother became quiet—so she tried to imply a different meaning. “I mean that Scythe Curie and I always prepare a meal for the family of her gleaning subjects. I’ve become a pretty good sous chef.”

Apparently saying that was even worse.

“Well, isn’t that nice,” her mother said in the cold sort of way that made it clear she found nothing nice about it. It wasn’t just her general distaste for Scythe Curie—it was jealousy. Scythe Curie had replaced Jenny Terranova in Citra’s life, and they both knew it.

The meal was served. Her father carved, and although Citra knew she could do a much better job of carving, she didn’t offer.

There was way too much to eat. The table was a promise of leftovers that would last until “turkey” became a dirty word. Citra had always been a quick eater, but Scythe Curie insisted she slow down and savor her sense of taste—so now as Scythe Anastasia, she ate slowly. She wondered if her parents noticed these little differences in her.

Citra thought the meal would go without incident—but halfway through, her mother decided to create one.

“I hear that boy who you apprenticed with has gone missing,” her mother said.

Citra took a healthy spoonful of something purple that tasted like mashed potatoes genetically merged with dragon fruit. She hated the way her parents, from the very beginning, referred to Rowan as “that boy.”

“I hear he went crazy or something,” Ben said, with a mouth full of food. “And since he was almost a scythe, the Thunderhead wasn’t allowed to fix him.”

“Ben!” said their father. “Let’s not talk about this at dinner.” Although he kept his eyes on Ben, Citra knew it was really directed at their mother.

“Well, I’m glad you’re not associated with him anymore,” her mother said. ?And when Citra did not respond, her mother simply had to push it even further. “I know the two of you were close during your apprenticeship.”

“We weren’t close,” Citra insisted. “We weren’t anything.” And that hurt to admit more than her parents could possibly know. How could she and Rowan have any kind of relationship when they were forced to be lethal adversaries? Even now, when he was hunted and she was yoked with the heavy responsibility of scythehood, how could there be anything between them but a dark well of longing?

“If you know what’s good for you, Citra, you’ll distance yourself from that boy,” her mother said. “Just forget you ever knew him, or you’ll come to regret it.”

Then her father sighed, and gave up trying to change the subject. “Your mother’s right, honey. They chose you over him for a reason. . . .”

Citra let her knife fall to the table. Not because she feared she might use it, but because Scythe Curie had taught her to never hold a weapon when angry—even if that weapon was a dinner knife. She tried to choose her words carefully, but maybe she wasn’t careful enough.

“I am a scythe,” she said with steel severity. “I might be your daughter, but you should show me the respect that my position deserves.”

Ben’s eyes looked as wounded as they had on the night she was forced to put a knife through his heart. “So do we all have to call you Scythe Anastasia now?” he asked her.

“Of course not,” she told him.

“No—just ‘Your Honor,’?” sniped her mother.

That’s when something that Scythe Faraday once said came back to her. Family is the first casualty of scythehood.

There was no further conversation for the rest of the meal, and as soon as the plates were cleared and in the dishwasher, Citra said, “I should probably go now.”

Her parents didn’t try to convince her to stay. This had become as awkward for them as it was for her. Her mother was no longer bitter about things. Now she just seemed resigned. There were tears in her eyes that she quickly hid by hugging Citra tightly, so Citra couldn’t see them—but she had.

“Come back soon, honey,” her mother said. “This is still your home.”

But it wasn’t anymore, and they all knew it.

? ? ?

“I’m going to learn how to drive, no matter how many times it kills me.”

Only a day after Thanksgiving, ?Anastasia—and today she was Anastasia—was more determined than ever to be at the wheel of her own destiny. ?The uneasy meal with her family reminded her that she needed to create distance between who she had once been and who she was now. The schoolgirl who rode around in publicars had to be left behind if she were ever to fill the shoes in which she now stood.